Archive for 1983

A form of rural perfection, Avondale Estates, Georgia, hitching a ride to meet Ginsberg,the Big Apple gizzard, it's a scorcher, my balls sweaty,hair down to my chin blondie, no Avondale mistakes,no women to crack my halo or burn their bras,hugging, sucking, tucking rugged red clayconstruction sites bare to eyes without scruples,New Worship cornerstone erections in latter days, oh thankingnine heavens for seven elevens and the beliefs of Hippocrates,and a beveled glass art-factory, original, vaginal, marginal coolGeorgia State Highway Patrol office, town of Avondaleprotected from itself by gunpowder deterrents, thankingGod of Billions, the courtyard sports manger silver liningflagpole, vacant of colored cloth, yet commands slavesof the Texaco Star, guts holding down the fort,stocks and bonds and spies, oh thankingthe Amoco Boyour unwilted concernwhile I beg to swallow cold fountain water keptsafe in your keepingheard on the radio, the Heat Godkilled eight suffering unair-conditioned zekes in the stateof the Cracker last week. Then I left the road one moretime before setting sail with my nearer to thee Life Scout thumb.Left to get a Big Mac and dry fish sandwich. Leftme with fifteen cents and only 873 milesto the scales of Manhattan where I hoped to share my bookof dead poems with a famous asshole named Allen.

Good evening good peoples of Single Bibliophile Universe.Good evening to you Guildrunners who aren't.(No Wittgenstein. You may not eat the gerund.)Welcome.Relax.Take the kinks out.Vibrate.Dreamland asterisk marital status: comprehensive but vague.Rest up for the holiday soon.When you most expect it loosen your hair.Burn off old habits.Rock along the microwave with a New Waver.Unfasten the refrigerator, Lux.Throw punk rock at a dog whipping him into shapes only a cat loves.Dust off your planted coffee-table books.Pick them up.Sniff them.And demand a miracle.Fish-pay the rent.Let your memory bank stand in any hallway it chooses.Consent to surpass the oracle of the Gaza Strip.Open your monologue for staring strangers to see.A very casual thing to do.Dualist or donkey?Inconveniences all queer statements must suffer.Only if you wash me.Designed to demolish warts and other unsightly buildings.Please pardon this occasion of theology.An aborted plot to dazzle you with distractions invariably most serious.Boz is the real flaw.The president smiling the greatest compliment allowed by law.Given on the basis of one promise per chapter.Brass doorknobs are selling where apples can't get past the canal.To look at you I would say your problems are not worth it.Irkwink yourself if there is no other art of curvature in your corner.They took us as fools and pried us free of our questions.Where are you in that picture?The living eternal end.

Now that those days have passed on to their reward,cute daffy lions bralessly stop by, convincingme I am suggesting myself. Despite Delilah'sclimax, poets are sometimes easy preyto the desires of skin and savagery.If you avoid the one, you catch the other.

Some of the people can be naked some of the time.And all of the people can be naked all of the time.But none of the people can be naked none of the time.I see God's face in my feet. I think Yeats said that.Babes observe their impacts. True as glass.Lines prepare their streets. Hit the books, son.Samson loved Delilah and long-winded facts.

There is no time left to write poems,only slogans which are mere wordsuckresurrecting the legends we breathe our songs for...

To write the epic of the worldin a few words or less(in one word or less)is the method of Cameo Kidney,an unfanned philosopher,a basic star streaker,a stunning safety soldier,hiding in the cloak closet,chaffed but unashamedthat English is the only language which capitalizes I while several prizethe pronounyou.

To be born in my manger,made affluent in three giftsby strangers harried from afar,is the feeling faked everywherein the shadow of my birthdateand you break out the best dishessaying, "Your book, if as a canvasis an ugly painting hanging in all the wrong places."

Generations of chalk revile the science of gesturesnicknamed virgins coax to their brow,laughing and lampooningEinstein's stepchildrenGod was forced to allow.

To kiss them where muses lick,begetting secrets we shower in song(Tormenting earth for five monthseagerly selling dark matter to the sun,dead idol Beelzebub's a crackingjokes at the keeper of the knots"home of the label"spinning report card eyesto recall laughter understoodin the vernacular to be fatal.

To accept each hand in marriageas a lion among the woodpileslost on timeshared tee-shirts admiring the sundown of business& extreme video conjugationscounting numbers without commascalling names without numbersdealing cards without namesshaving beards without cardsbooking definitions

"There are some people one loves best,and others whom one would almost alwaysrather have as companions."Henrik Ibsen

Throw away that awful ticket stub I said. None of ushere need that can of starch. We know by heartthe meaning of fuss. Baby and the Pacifiersare playing a gig at the Bistro to start.Roaring inclinations.Singsoldier.

We worked out long wars, healing our oyster eyeswith the sweaty breath of evergreen night.That Lebanon dirt. Manic contoursagreeable to random odor,magnificently kite.We knew we couldn't write about it so we danced.

The proud crystalline swans of our age,obscuring shades,sex and stereotype,wars and rumors of wars,strikes, balks, and numb nuts,say hello every sort of way,wrapping like a nursing maiden's delicate handsaround the seat of our desires,our strategic pyres,in place of inspirational jeep: glancesjust aren't enough glands.

II.

She handledmy buttocks and its karma,so tight and competitively elite,as I cracked the bloody march.New Wave Morals.

Baby, the pacifiers,and our wormlike mirrorsresponding like thoroughbredstrangers caught in the loosening moods of dawnwere mere constructions of belief.I worried about my nature to be direct and innocent. It droveme to silence.

Her ravishionary spherical absolutesaroused my superior being,those victory moon bavarian breasts(honorarium of the beasts...)provoking the shape of things and substance,my superior being shy,companionless.

I danced. She rubbed her baubled pawsagain along the fine tight lines my cribdrew against hocus evening shadows,showing there can be no pretensedenying afresh the vital statistic,no silly discourteous cockteasestranding scalps and flirtinghumor, hunger, hoaryreligions that the idlerefuse to prosper.

We easily could havemade each other blank membersof a riper version, gamblingon last night's cruise into saneRichard Hell's visitation,a vanity cruise highlightingwinning girls wearing nothingbut furs,idols and onan. We became the ideaand did.

And I felt our mutual flash,hornspun and cursive,realizing the mediocritya poem of wordsofferssplashbeginning of the worldtigers and baboonsthunderbirds and the dung beetlebiting off more than a scientistcan chew,

open clash,the meaning of her friendship ritual.

She and HeRocking to and fromin pop style punctuated punkcontinuing to rock to and fromher unannounceable tokenssheer succulencewell pronouncedshocking my demands on reality,to and from, rubbingmy arm, now as importantas any zoneI could hope oversimplifyinglywould release me. Gracefuldancer bombardierbalancing virtueand free baggage. Likelierchoices bait our laughter.Especially in a gigof young punk artistsrocking.

She felt herself.Above the arms of her date.The three of us knew the heathen painsof fate which hauntheaven and the pawnbroker'spavilion. And white hawkish sweatersbulging through nervous nicotinedsmoky husksin the Bistro late hours.

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"Intellectual economics guarantees that even the most powerful and challenging work cannot protect itself from the order of fashion. Becoming-fashion, becoming-commodity, becoming-ruin. Such instant, indeed retroactive ruins, are the virtual landscape of the stupid underground. The exits and lines of flight pursued by Deleuze and Guattari are being shut down and rerouted by the very people who would take them most seriously."